Translated by Jeffrey Angles

SOUND IN THE WIND

One day it happened

A certain word disappeared

Even now, soil is still buried

In the soil of my garden

Words are buried within words

What must we do to dig

Soil from soil and words from words?

I whispered this question to the telephone poles

The wind strummed the telephone wires

And the wires rang in the wind

*

PERSPECTIVE THAT WILL NOT END

as I collect only pencils
far off in the distance
a small government collapses

as I make a line
of new erasers
the world grows heavy

as I take a clock apart
a distant army forms a line
& starts to march

open a scarred
hardback book
& my unborn uncle

starts to develop cyanotypes

as the triangle I use to measure
is wounded, a distant river
burns

adolescent boys & sacred girls
hurt one another in concrete ways
& a courtyard puddle stirs in the breeze

meanwhile
a ship in a distant bottle
capsizes

as I suck on a piece of candy
a moth vanishes in the windows of a far-off school
it simply disappears

still not speaking
my childhood sobs hysterically
& lies prostrate on a table

if I try to crack an egg
the drying rack on the roof of
a far-off hospital lies where it has fallen

prisoners wordlessly form a line
& set off for their workplace
while the guards’ legs cramp

try to put on a damp cloth
& the names of distant seas
have changed

still furious
a bank teller smashes his calculator
& tears up a map of the Silk Road

as I begin to boil milk
a new species of crab walks straight
across a far-off sandy beach

one vending machine
standing next to another
has run out of change

as I go to comb my hair
a beetle starts to spread its wings
on the landing of a distant staircase

a freshly painted fishing boat
waits for the waves’ irony
while floating on water

(there is something that will not end
there is something that will not start
neither nearby nor far away)

the lighthouse on the cape casts its light in this direction
while beyond it stretches an uninhabited land
everything, broken, writhes below a chicken’s belly

something that will not end

a minke whale’s bowels grow empty on a clear day
among the ghosts of the corn fields, the silence
of the season bares its teeth & roars in anger

something that will not end

I only understand
the sorrow of bare feet
the profiles of the dead are next to me, close by
in the present eyes, ears, noses & mouths of roses

forms become invisible
the shadows of men
raised by wolves are far away

in an unclouded mirror
the pretext of the friction of the expanding universe
grows wet & falls, so far away

a waterfall of abstract flower garlands is near

forgetfulness, cached away inside, bares its fangs
& rages dim in madness
along a distant harbor road

even farther from here, not knowing else what to do
a wolf with frozen front paws
lets his anger run

a single beach sandal lies in the road before my house
it has taken a tumble
& Dadaism burns

try squinting & peering into the distance
you’ll break the back of your mind with a hammer
like you’re breaking it with a hammer from the back

things will smash to smithereens
your eagerness to hold a grudge
will rule over you

I chew a new stick of gum
with the glittering light of dawn
wanting to destroy it

love kills the universe & vomits
& in the distant shallows of a black sea
a great white shark loses its memory

something that will not end
something that will not start
neither near nor far away

vast dreams quietly hold their silence
something that will not end will not start
an incomparable atrocity quietly sneers
something that will not end will not start
the blowing breeze quietly betrays us
something that will not end will not start
the flowers of a dogwood quietly scatter
something that will not end will not start
clouds that boil up and disappear quietly break apart
something that will not end will not start
a sparrow that sings incessantly quietly has large wings
something that will not end will not start
the open ocean reduplicates waves that quietly vanish
something that will not end will not start
a drop of whiskey has quietly fermented barley’s regret
something that will not end will not start
a single cedar tree, unloved, stands quietly on a hill

something that will not end
something that will not start
neither near nor far away
perspective is still skewed
something that will not end
something that will not start

About

RYOICHI WAGO (1968–) is a poet from Fukushima. In the immediate aftermath of the 2011 earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear meltdown, he started a Twitter feed, sharing his observations and experiences in the form of poetry. They were eventually collected in Shi no tsubute (Pebbles of Poetry), one of the first major literary works to emerge from the 3.11 disasters. Still writing from Fukushima, he has become the major poetic voice of 3.11, writing about its ongoing impact on Japan.

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